


Primadonna and the Piano Man

by ryukoishida



Series: Sing When You're In Love [6]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: M/M, Utter trash, idol!Gieve, singer-songwriter!Isfan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: This is the story of how one of the nation’s top idol Gieve and bestselling folk-rock musician Isfan meet (and eventually fall in love). [Idol/Musician!AU][Written for Arslan Senki Fandom Day 2017]





	Primadonna and the Piano Man

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to the rest of the series.

“It’s impossible.”

 

“But Isfan—”

               

“There’s no way in hell—”

 

The agitated fingers on the fretboard dance in an even more erratic rhythm, his right hand strumming harder in a frail attempt to drown out his well-meaning manager’s desperate plead. The chords reverberate raucously within one of the soundproof practice rooms in the core building of Ecbatana Entertainment Productions.

 

“Will you put away your guitar and just listen to me for one moment, please?” Lucian, hair swept back into a half-ponytail and streaked with silver-grey, frowns disapprovingly, the lines around his eyes deepening as he leans against the wall with a rumbling sigh.

 

Isfan is usually one of the more easygoing artists to deal with in the company, but being the manager of this particular singer-songwriter — infamous in the music industry for being exceedingly serious and painstakingly methodical when it comes to his compositions and lyrics-writing, as well as being a little too opinionated about the idol culture, among other controversies — for the last few years, Lucian has seen him at his worst.

 

Trying to convince him to collaborate with one of the nation’s top idol, as Lucian soon discovers, turns out to be even more of a challenge than he’s initially anticipated.

 

“According to Farangis, he’s the one who personally wants to invite you for this collaboration,” Lucian’s mouth curves up in amusement as he continues, “apparently, he likes, and I quote, ‘the impossible way he can tug at my heartstrings while playing the piano with such a straight face and singing about a haunted ship and dead lovers’.”

 

Isfan snorts in reply. So, that man has done his homework after all, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s an arrogant, flippant man with over-the-top make-up and even stranger hairstyle that seems to change every time he appears for an event or talk show (not that Isfan had been paying any particular attention) who dares to call himself a musician, when all he seems to be capable of doing is dancing to mainstream pop and singing such cliché, sickly saccharine love songs the lyrics of which may as well have been written by a sixth-grader bearing their first crush.

 

If there’s one thing he detests the most in the world, it’s crudely-crafted, shallow combinations of words that disguised themselves as lyrics.      

 

“Have you ever seen him perform?” Lucian can practically see the weaving pathways in his protégé’s brain busily working out this disaster of an idea.

 

“How long have you known me, Lucian?” he asks, quirking up an eyebrow, the answer clear as day.

 

“You haven’t,” Lucian announces with quiet triumph, “then maybe you shouldn’t judge him so harshly. I’ve seen footage of his performances when he was still with his previous idol unit and I’ve got to say, that boy’s got charisma and one hell of a voice.”

 

Isfan’s responding hum is brisk and non-committed.

 

Lucian was the one who discovered him in a local bar and restaurant when he had been working part-time, performing mellower versions of top 40 hits on a tiny stage in a dimmed corner for patrons who hardly paid attention to him or his music, to support his last year of college. When the music producer approached him, business card and genuine smile intact, Isfan was still suspicious of the stranger’s intent until he recognized the face and voice of the famous rock musician who had been most active about two decades ago, and Isfan only knew of him because his elder brother Shapur was a huge fan and would constantly play Lucian’s CDs in the car and at home.

 

It has been five years since then, and Isfan has learned very early on to trust Lucian. Not only was Lucian a talented musician back in his prime years, but he’s also a capable manager who understand his charge's needs and tries his hardest to accommodate Isfan’s wishes whenever possible. Of course, there had also been times when they had their disagreements, but these were rare and far in between, and during the few instances that happened, Lucian had made the right calls.

 

Isfan would trust his career and future in Lucian’s hands, but this collaboration will surely end in nothing but a catastrophe — a catastrophe Isfan would rather avoid at all costs.  

 

Attempting his best to put on an optimistic air, Lucian starts again, “I’ve already arranged everything with his manager; all we need is for you two to find some time to get together during the next few weeks to work on the single.”

 

“I’m too busy,” Isfan immediately replies with a hint of a smug grin.

 

“I cleared out your schedule,” Lucian smiles back pleasantly, knowing exactly how the singer-songwriting will counter.  

 

“But I need the time to work on my new materials,” Isfan protests.

 

“And how are those new songs coming along?” Lucian asks pointedly.

 

“…”

 

He doesn’t mention the scrawled-out melodies on crumpled pieces of paper or the many deleted or discarded samples on his laptop. Lucian probably already knows and is just saving Isfan from embarrassing himself.  

 

“That’s what I figure. Look, you know I always respect your talent and artistic freedom,” Lucian says.

 

“Then you understand that it takes time to craft something that’s better than the previous album,” Isfan mumbles, fingers mindlessly plucking the strings in a nameless melody.

 

“I understand perfectly,” Lucian reassures him with a grim expression, “but don’t forget that the music industry is still business to the higher-ups. They only care about the results and profits, and at the rate you’re going right now, you’re not giving them anything. It has been more than six months since you’ve released any new content; the fans may be patient enough to wait for you, but the company is less forgiving.”

 

That’s one thing Isfan dislikes being a contracted artist at a major label; everything is about money, money, money. It’s not that he doesn’t understand their side, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling the frustration and unease roiling in his chest that can only be assuaged by banging loudly on a drum-set. Percussion is not his strength, but it sure feels satisfying.

 

“Even…” Isfan glances up at his manager, fingers slowing down the strumming, “even if I were to work on a collaboration, does it have to be _him_?”

 

Seeing a crack gradually opening up, Lucian quickly takes advantage, “You might not see it now, but perhaps he’s the spark of inspiration you need to get you moving forward.”

 

“You think?” Isfan sounds doubtful.

 

“It’ll be beneficial for both parties,” Lucian nods with a relieved smile, “I’m sure of it.”

 

-

 

Isfan isn’t sure of anything anymore.

 

He pauses before the door of the studio, sharp topaz eyes glancing through the glass only to spot an unfamiliar figure inside: the young man donned in a knitted sweater half a size too big for his frame and skinny jeans that accentuates the length of his legs is sitting on the plastic chair and plucking the strings of his acoustic guitar delicately, dark purple hair the shade of twilight bunched up with hairclips to keep forelocks from blocking his sight, a pair of plastic, black-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and making his eyes impossibly green, and he’s solely focused on the scattered sheets on the music stand.

 

Isfan checks the room number again to make sure he’s at the right place.

 

He is.

 

His grip on the strap of his guitar case tightens a degree, and then he knocks on the door two times. Without waiting for an invitation to come in, he turns the knob and lets himself into the studio with confident steps, a challenging glint in his eyes, and firm line to his lips.

 

The man with the obnoxious purple hair looks up, eyes widening in surprise as if he hasn’t expected any guests even though they have arranged this meeting just two days prior.

 

“Damn, those MVs didn’t do you any justice. At all.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

This is clearly a mistake, Isfan thinks as he walks up to the man who still has a guitar in his lap. Isfan’s height easily towers over the other man’s, but he seems nonchalant about the intimidating aura Isfan’s body language is emitting.  

 

“It’s a compliment,” he explains with a flirtatious grin as he pulls himself up after placing his guitar on a nearby stand, and with how close they’re standing, he has to crane his neck a little to stare at Isfan straight in the eyes, sea-green irises bold and unafraid. “I’m Gieve. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll be able to work well together.”

 

The folk-rock musician is ready to either throw a punch at the idol’s incredibly pretty face and risk getting yelled at by Lucian, or pull him in and kiss that insufferable smirk away. He chooses to do neither; instead, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down, he pulls a chair over, folds himself into the seat elegantly, and begins to take out his instrument and some notes he’s made beforehand — lyrics ideas and snippets of melodies he’d been working on that might act as starting points for this collaboration.

 

He’s a professional, Isfan reminds himself like a chant, he’s a professional and he’ll act like one, and he will not let this damn idol get the better of him with his terrible flowery rhetoric or his dazzling smile that has successfully slain thousands of fanboys and fangirls all over the country.

 

“Isfan,” he coldly introduces himself and presses his lips tightly together without another word.

 

“Oh, a little shy, are we?” Gieve takes his seat and picks up his guitar once more, fingers idly caressing the strings as a gentle series of notes begin to form and flow like a small creek drifting smoothly over pebbles warmed by the sun in the depth of summer.

 

Isfan is about to open his mouth to snap a retort, but he’s genuinely surprised by the strange complexity of the chords and notes weaving together into this seemingly light and buoyant tune, so much so that his fingers are trembling slightly as they crave to touch the cool, ivory keys of a piano to play the harmony to accompany the sweet melody of the guitar.

 

“You wrote that?” Isfan asks when Gieve stops abruptly, breaking the brunet’s trance.

 

“Still tinkering with it.”

 

“It’s… it’s good,” he’s staring at the music stand when he says it, his eyes not quite meeting Gieve’s.

 

“That was really difficult for you to admit, wasn’t it?” Gieve grins knowingly, and the expression only grows more imminent when he sees Isfan’s cheeks staining red at being found out. He stands up once more and stalks towards Isfan, almost like a predator, the sharp gleam in his eyes merciless, though a small smile still curves along his lips as he closes the gap between them. “What? You think I got to this point in my career just by looking pretty and knowing how to dance and sing? Don’t look down on idol culture, Isfan. A lot of us worked hard since we were teenagers, and less than half of us would even make it past the eliminations to get a chance to perform on stage. So, if you think I’m just going to let you push me around while we’re working on this project because you think you’re more musically superior to me or whatever, you better think again.”   

 

Their faces are mere inches away from each other’s, and Isfan can feel Gieve’s frenzied, heated breaths against his cheek, his sea-green eyes brightened from agitation. Isfan gulps, gaze unable to rip away from the idol’s intense stare, and when he finally realizes they’ve remained in this awkward position for way too long, he shoves the idol away by the shoulders, causing Gieve to stumble a few steps back into a safe distance.

 

“Did you only invite me for the collab just so you can give me a lecture?” Isfan mutters darkly, “If so, then well-fucking-done. Shall I see myself out now that you’re finished?”

 

He begins to stuff his guitar back into the case, but a hand wrapped firmly around his forearm makes him freeze.

 

“Calm down,” Gieve laughs and let go of Isfan’s arm when the brunet sends him a glare, his previous irritation seeming to have dissipated without a trace, his smile once more bright and harmless if a little too cunning. “I didn’t know what I was expecting, but given the theatrical lyrics you write, I should have guessed that you’re as melodramatic as they come.”

 

It looks like Isfan is about to protest again but Gieve is quicker, “Look, the reason why I want to collaborate with you is because I truly admire your music and tenacity to strive for perfection. I’ll be frank with you: I’m sick of always doing dance pop and being assumed that I can only do one genre of music; I want to do something new, something unexpected and exciting that would make the fans happy. What about you?”

 

Gieve settles back on his chair, cradling his guitar and strumming a chord with practiced hand.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The idol’s gaze is unsettling, yet Isfan is unable to look away.

 

“What do you want out of this collaboration?”

 

He thinks back to the past six months when he tried to write and rewrite so many melodies, none of them to his satisfaction, each seeming to be missing a piece, lacking the passion, the energy, and the soul of his previous works. He’d locked himself in the studio for hours on end; he’d travelled to the countryside to get inspiration and peace; he’d even attempted to write after he’d gotten himself drunk just enough to be tipsy and his emotions were allowed to burst forth onto blank pages without his usual constraint.

 

None of those had worked.

 

He sits up straight and clears his throat.

 

“I want to move forward with my music; I want to transform what I’ve achieved before and turn it into something different but still irrevocably me…” Isfan has never imagined that telling Gieve, of all people, would feel like this — as if he’s sharing this insurmountable pressure and frustration that he’d been unable to disclose to anyone else because he’d always been able to handle this on his own.

 

But this is a collaboration; he has a partner this time, and it looks like Gieve is just as ambitious and driven as he is in this regard.  

 

“So, it seems like we have a similar goal,” Gieve’s smile grows wider, almost scheming.

 

“It would seem so, yes,” Isfan is still wary of the other man’s intention but he’s willing to hear him out for now.

 

“I don’t know about you, but for me, it’s go big or go home. So why don’t we aim for our song to reach the number one spot in the Pars Top 40 chart?”

 

-

 

Despite their temporary truce, their journey to achieve a top hit pop song is perilous and full of conflicts.

 

The first two sessions mostly involve the two of them throwing general ideas back and forth at each other. The discussion goes from the target audience to the genre of music they want to make. While Gieve is known for his catchy dance pop and sugary love songs mostly aimed at the younger teenage audiences, Isfan’s style strays from folk-rock songs dedicated to nature and romance to melancholic ballads of lost identity and destructive love.

 

After much shouting, pen-throwing, and paper-crumpling, they’ve finally decided the theme of their song would be about the burdens of education and pressures of expectations that many young people and students face nowadays. It’s a serious but relatable topic that would engage a wide range of listeners. As for the genre, Gieve wants to do a mellower, stripped-down, acoustic version — something that’s more forlorn and heart-wrenching; however, Isfan wants to make it into a rock anthem, angrily declaring the dissatisfaction and resentment, and calling for an action to change.

 

They reconcile with the decision to try both versions for now, and only after discussion with the producer and other staff will they make their final choice.

 

Then the song-writing process begins, and it doesn’t get any easier from there.

 

“This riff here doesn’t sound right,” Gieve, who’s sitting on a stool next to Isfan’s piano bench, is saying as he points at the eleventh and twelfth bars on the music sheet, which have been scrawled with Isfan’s neat handwriting, drawn notes and lines. “It’s not enough…”

 

“Not enough…?” Isfan glances over at the idol, a single eyebrow quirked up in question and his hands still hovering above the keyboard.   

 

“You know: flair, energy, pizzazz!” Gieve waves his hands in a huge arching gesture, hoping the other man will understand.

 

Isfan stares blankly back at him, uncomprehending.

 

“Can you be any more vague?” Isfan heaves out an exasperated sigh and shifts over a little. “Why don’t you just show me? Here.” He pats the empty space next to him, and Gieve only hesitates for half a second before he accepts Isfan’s invitation and plops himself down on the bench.

 

The worn-out leather and oak seat isn’t really suited for two full-grown adult men, and so even with Isfan basically sitting on the very edge on one side, Gieve’s arm still lightly brushes against his whenever the idol moves just the slightest.

 

Not that Isfan is paying any special attention to how warm and comfortable Gieve feels sitting so closely next to him, or how nice he smells from whatever cologne he’d sprayed himself with that day, or how elegant and sensual his pale, slender fingers look against the black and white keys of the piano.    

 

“Hmm, I’m thinking maybe something like this,” Gieve plays a series of notes that’s similar to what’s written on the music score, but with a slight variation to the rhythm so that the entire riff sounds a little livelier, a bit richer, than before. He tries a few more variations, his eyebrows puckering in deep concentration as he plays and teases the melodies much like how he does with the strings of his guitar. His glasses are sliding down the bridge of his nose but Gieve doesn’t even seem to notice, and Isfan has the strongest urge to reach over and fix it for him.

 

“Isfan… Isfan! What do you think?”

 

“Sorry, what was that?” Isfan instinctively shifts back and almost slips and falls off the bench when he realizes just how close Gieve is — close enough that if he ducks his head slightly, his lips would be touching the soft hair by the idol’s temple.

 

“The riffs — the ones I just played for you — which one do you think is better?”

 

To be honest, Isfan has stopped functioning after the first one Gieve has played. Gods. Staying in this god-forsaken studio with no natural lighting coming in for six hours straight is doing weird shit to his mind; he needs a break, and maybe a snack.

 

“Do you want to go for a break?” Gieve asks as if he’s just read his mind.

 

“Do you mind? I can use some caffeine and cup noodles.”

 

Isfan’s stomach growls in agreement.

 

“You know both those things are bad for your throat, right?” Gieve is surprised to find that the singer-songwriter, who seems so solemn and a stickler for rules at first glance, cares so little about his diet. Having healthy bodies and protecting their voices are especially important for artists like themselves, so ever since Gieve started training with his idol unit, he’d maintained a strict diet and exercise regime.

 

“Let me have some fun, mother,” Isfan yawns, standing up to stretch. His jeans ride low on his hips and a sliver of tanned skin is shown for just a few seconds, but the little display is enough to give Gieve a tiny heart attack, his cheeks flushing and turning uncomfortably warm.

 

He clears his throat, and turns away to face the piano when Isfan glances down at him.

 

“Wow. You? Fun? I never thought I’d hear you wanting to be associated with the word ‘fun’,” Gieve chuckles, getting up as well.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Isfan is way too tired and hungry to come up with more creative insults.

 

“Come on, there’s a place close by that opens late and has really good savory snacks,” Gieve winds an arm around the taller man’s shoulders and steers him out the door.

 

“But the song…”

 

Isfan is only planning to quickly whip up some noodles and coffee in the pantry, so a thirty-minute break would have sufficed.

 

“The song can wait! Come on, come on! My treat!”   

 

-

 

By the time they are sitting down to write the lyrics, the two musicians with drastically different roots and conflicting beliefs have become quite in sync in terms of their ideas. Occasionally, bickering would still break out, and staff passing by the studio, the door sometimes left a crack open to let in some air, would hear snippets of “what are you even trying to convey with this line here?” or “that doesn’t even rhyme!”

 

Even stranger still, those same staff members who’d overheard the arguments would often see Gieve and Isfan coming out of the studio after a few hours, and they would either share companionable silence after a long day of work or chattering about where to get dinner.

 

One night, the two were kicked out of the studio due to equipment maintenance, but neither of them wanted to stop because they felt like they were on the verge of finally writing something good after days of scraped ideas and ripped up notebook pages, so Gieve invited Isfan back to his place to continue.

 

Isfan didn’t even think twice before agreeing.

 

When they were satisfied with what they had written, it was already two o’clock in the morning. The public transit had stopped running and Isfan’s car had been left in the company parking lot, so naturally, Gieve volunteered to make spicy instant noodles with extra toppings and treated themselves with a bottle of ice-cold beer each for the conclusion of the gruesome yet fruitful lyric-writing session.  

 

During the few weeks they spent together, Gieve discovered that Isfan was especially talkative when he got tired, and while they ate, slurping the hot soup and moaning at the deliciousness of cheap MSG-fueled ramen, Isfan began to ask questions.

 

“Why did you want to become an idol?”

 

“Finally taken an interest in me, Isfan?” Gieve sent him an exaggerated wink across the steaming pot sitting in the middle of the dining table.

 

“Just curious.”

 

“Honestly, it’s the same old story,” Gieve replied after swallowing a mouthful of noodles, “I was scouted by an agent from Ecbatana while I was still in high school. I didn’t have any grand plans back then, and no world-shattering ambitions or goals to speak of, so I thought, ‘Why the hell not? Sounds fun!’ and just went with the flow.”

 

“That’s so you,” Isfan commented with a small laugh.

 

“Isn’t it just? And then of course behind all that glamour, rivalry arose, friendships were crushed over jealousy and competition,” Gieve carefully blew on the fishcake dangling between his chopsticks to cool it down before putting it into his mouth.

 

“But you made it; you’re here,” Isfan said, placing his chopsticks down.  

 

Gieve hummed, and for a brief moment, the two men concentrated on finishing their food and drinks.

 

“I’m sorry,” Isfan murmured, gaze dropping to the bottle of beer in his hands, fingers dragging droplets of condensation as they left smears on the table, “for my shitty behavior when we first met. I shouldn’t have judged you or your abilities before I even get to know you.”

 

“I sure showed you though, didn’t I?” Gieve grinned openly, and through the thin veil of steam that was still rising from the pot of finished noodles, he almost seemed surreal, the green of his eyes beckoning him in the fog, the quirk of his lips bearing a subtler message that Isfan had yet to decode, but that strange, clawing feeling disappeared as quickly as it had swooped down over him, and he found himself turning his head away, feeling uncomfortably hot and prickly.

 

“Isfan?” Gieve leaned over, his face full of concern.

 

“Sorry, just tired. It’s been a long day.”

 

Gieve didn’t ask any further. 

 

After putting the dishes away, they settled contentedly on the couch, and with the politics and bloodshed of _Game of Thrones_ playing softly in the background, the two men fell asleep leaning against each other, their breathing slowing down until they became one harmonizing melody.

 

-

 

The only main task left for them is recording the song. The instrumentals for both versions are recorded without any major hitches; Isfan is responsible for playing the piano in the acoustic version while both he and Gieve contribute to the guitar portions in the rock version. The rest of the instrumentals are filled in by the company’s contracted musicians.

 

However, recording vocals hasn’t gone as smoothly as they’ve hoped.

 

It has taken Gieve many, many tries before he can pinpoint the exact emotion he wants — that deep, furious growling that he’s still not quite used to but is necessary for this song — without messing up the lyrics, and this is especially difficult due to the unforgivingly swift tempo that leaves the singer with very little space in between to take a breath.

 

On the contract, it’s been stated that Gieve will be responsible for the main vocals of the single, so while Isfan doesn’t necessarily need to be present for the vocal recording, he still sits in the recording booth with the audio engineer, entranced by the way Gieve puts everything into his singing while he keeps insisting that he can do better and pleads with the recording engineer to let him have another attempt even though his voice is obviously becoming scratchy from overuse.

 

During the weeks they were working on the melody and lyrics, Isfan already realizes that despite the idol’s seemingly gregarious and flippant personality, as if he never takes anything or anyone seriously, Gieve is an entirely different being when he throws himself deep into his work: he will nitpick and scratch out ideas until he deems the product near perfect to his satisfaction, and this is certainly one quality that Isfan has learned to respect.  

 

About two hours into recording, with almost the entire bottle of water emptied, Isfan signals at the idol for him to come out of the booth, but Gieve merely shakes his head and speaks into the microphone to let them know that he’s still fine to continue.

 

The audio engineer looks between the two musicians, uncertain of how to proceed, but Isfan gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before entering the recording booth himself, half-dragging, half-persuading Gieve to take a much-needed break.

 

“Just let me try a few more takes! I almost got it, come on—”

 

“No, your voice is cracking. You need to rest,” Isfan insists.

 

“Isfan’s right. Let’s give it another go tomorrow,” the audio engineer tells Gieve kindly.

 

Isfan nods his thanks, and then with a firm and steady hand, he pulls the bewildered idol out the door with a polite “see you tomorrow” aimed at the audio engineer.

 

“All right, all right, will you let go already?”

 

Gieve has been blindly following Isfan without really questioning where he’s taking him; not that he has any choice to begin with since the taller man still has a strong hold of his hand as he leads them down one hallway after another. A few passerby staff give them odd looks as they rush past, but they keep the muttering to themselves, though it doesn’t stop all kinds of rumours from spreading outside of the company that will gradually accompany the release of the single in the upcoming weeks.

 

Isfan finally lets him go when they reach the roof. They’ve taken the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid the worst of the crowd, but even walking up three flights of stairs is enough to make Gieve, who exercises regularly through dance rehearsals and gym visits, sweat and breathe raggedly, his arm hanging onto the railing to support his weight when they finally reach the top.

 

The roof of Ecbatana Entertainment Productions has been renovated into a garden where employees can rest in a peaceful spot away from the stress and worry of their work for a little while. The place is usually crowded during lunch time, but it is now nearing seven o’clock in the evening, the sky deepening into violet and blue and awash with splashes of pink and gold of the setting sun, the rooftop garden is utterly deserted.

 

Bushes of blooming lavender planted in squares of soil in the center of the garden create a waft of pleasant and sweet floral scent with a trace of evening summer breeze. Leaves of various plants that neither man remembers the names of whisper and rustle softly around them, and for the moment, they share the illusion of being the only ones in this world as the city halts its steps for the night.  

 

The two men settle on one of the benches that allows them to overlook the city skyline.

 

“Now that you’ve got me all by my lonesome,” Gieve breaks the silence easily and glances up at him with his infamous smile, the frustration from a few minutes ago gone without a trace as he wraps an arm intimately around Isfan’s shoulders, “is there something you wish to confess?”

 

Turning to face him properly, Isfan almost loses the ability to speak; their faces are only inches apart, and it reminds him of the first time they met — how irritated he’d felt towards the cheeky idol, how much he’d wanted to push him away and walk out of that room, how much more he’d wanted to pull him in and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

 

He exhales slowly, eyes slipping close to refocus, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to.

 

“I’m worried about you,” Isfan says.

 

“Oh,” Gieve chuckles airily, “this is new.”

 

“I’m serious, damn it,” Isfan grits out, eyes flashing golden and black when he opens them again. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for the past week; you’ve barely finished any of your meals, and I know you’ve been chugging energy drinks when you thought nobody’s watching.”

 

“Well, apparently, _someone_ ’s been watching me closely,” Gieve’s grin turns a little mischievous as he leans in even closer, close enough that their breaths are mixing, a hand dragging up to the nape of Isfan’s neck.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Isfan murmurs, feeling the idol’s fingers splayed warm and heavy against the back of his neck, and he’s entirely too distracted by the other man’s eyes, made deeper green by the colored contact lenses and lightly lined in kohl due to an event he needs to attend later on tonight, and his smiling mouth, the subtle twist an alluring challenge, an undeniable invitation.

 

“Seeking comfort, decreasing my stress levels, trying to make you notice me more, and so on and so forth,” Gieve replies.

 

Isfan laughs lightly at the last item of Gieve’s statement, clearly amused by the idol’s attempt to flirt with him (which is working weirdly well, all things considered), and Gieve pouts at the reaction, slightly insulted.

 

“What? Why are you laughing? This is no laughing matter, you know—”

 

Isfan only laughs harder, the corner of his eyes crinkling and the sound of his laughter soft and rumbling like distant thunder echoing in a forest that sets alight something deep within Gieve, making his blood tremble with delight.

 

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Isfan says, and then he’s pulling Gieve towards himself by a fistful of his shirtfront, his mouth crashing against the idol’s unceremoniously in a messy kiss.

 

-

 

“And this week, on the Pars Top 40 Chart, a newly released single has reached the number one spot: it’s Gieve, featuring guest artist Isfan, ‘The Lost Ones’ Fantasy’!”

**Author's Note:**

> The song that Isfan and Gieve worked on is based on “Lost One’s Weeping”.
> 
> [Original](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0TtDeDiHcE) \- Kagamine Rin  
> [English cover (acoustic) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoZPASj-k0s)\- JubyPhonic  
> [Japanese cover (rock)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLO23Ys9vg8) \- KENN


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